Kevlar
by Spinesless
Summary: Bullet wounds are excruciatingly painful.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Mentalist.

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Bullet wounds are excruciatingly painful.

Come on, think about it. A piece of harder-than-rock lead comes splaying out of a metal barrel at over eight-hundred feet-per-second, propelled by a small explosion. It then quite literally _rips through_ anything in its way, be it mattresses, walls, or human flesh. (Your human flesh) And then, when it hits said solid object, it can shatter on impact. So your quite solid hunk of lead is now zillions of tiny pieces of shrapnel, embedded into your very being.

Now, let's say your bullet decided to keep itself together. You've still got this chunk of lead stuck somewhere in your innards, now, what if did some damage, say, nicked an artery? If you can't get medical attention soon, you're dead, sorry sucker. But we'll back up. The bullet has a plethora of other soft tissue to damage. It can hit your stomach (another rather painful way to die, and not nearly as quick) or your intestines, or your lungs (deflated like a balloon) or your heart. While surviving a bullet to the heart is unlikely, it is not impossible. Your survival rate goes up. Congratulations.

But, you also still have these wretchedly inconvenient limps flopping around, and maybe you throw up your arms in front of your face, or maybe to protect a loved one, or perhaps your shooter has perpetually bad aim and you get caught in the leg, or you shoot yourself in the foot, for whatever reason. There are a lot of veins and such, floating in your troublesome limbs, and they can get severed, or the bullet could get stuck or much more awful things.

Oh, yes, and what if you turn around to run and get shot in the back? What damage would you sustain then? Well, you could do much damage to your spinal cord, that's for sure. You could lose total control of your legs and become paralyzed, never to walk again, or all sorts of nasties that come with spine injuries.

Or, you know, the bullet can go "through and through", with out any shrapnel, without getting stuck. It's actually a positive term, I assure you. Unless the bullet has gone "through and through" your aorta, I'm sure you'll be just fine.

The sort of gun and bullet also depends strongly on damaged sustained. Service pistols and hand guns certainly do the trick. Now, I'm just a consultant, and I hate guns, but I know that if you're confronted by an automatic, I would tell you to just surrender. Did you know they can cut down trees with sound automatics? Crazy, really, but true. There are also shotguns, and some can have a bullet-and-casing that's over six inches long. There's also birdshot, which, to my understanding, is several ball bearings being shot at once, used for hunting.

Damaged sustained also matters on distance, and such, and if your gun is loaded improperly. Being shot at point blank is with a very minimal distance between shooter and victim, and most damaged can be sustained here. The farther away one gets, the more their aim fails and the bullet slows down, having less of an impact, becoming less deadly. That is, unless, of course, your shooter is a _sniper_, wielding a gun that specializes in long distance shots. In that case, I bid you my luck.

There are some ways to protect your self, of course. Panes of bulletproof plastic work, as do specialty shields and helmets. Try not to get shot at in a metal box or room, ricochet is quite dangerous. Car doors won't do you any more, and steel sheets are few and far behind. If you have a Kevlar vest, however, you should be okay.

Oh, but me, well, I'm not okay.

**TBC**

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**A/N I'll update in the morning, enjoy, feedback is appreciated. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Mentalist.**

I mean, I guess it is all my fault. But not really! I'm just a consultant, why would I be required to a vest? I mean, yes, Lisbon does try to get me to wear them when we approach a scene, and I suppose that they can be very useful, but they're just so ugly. I spend precious time every morning getting dressed, how many people do you know wear waistcoats? Perfectly pressed waistcoats? A Kevlar vest would just wrinkle everything and I would look like a disaster. And they're bulky and horribly uncomfortable.

Then again, bullet holes can ruin clothes just as nicely.

But, how was I supposed to know what was going to go down? Suspects can be very unpredictable, especially when spooked. There wasn't anytime for us to react, except to drop for cover, but by then it was already a bit too late.

Have I mentioned how excruciatingly painful it is to have a piece of lead rip through your body going faster than one-thousand feet-per-second?

I have?

Oh, sorry. I thought you might need reminding.

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No one was supposed to get hurt.

It was all standard, everyone had their vests on, they had back up, and Jane was going to hang back by the SUV. He didn't even have to come at all, really, he didn't have any power, he's not very intimidating. But, like always, he _insisted_ on accompanying them. She pressed him to wear a vest, he declined, they quarreled, but Lisbon gave up in the end.

But once they arrived, everything changed. Jane was about to make a remark over something, probably the hedges or something ridiculous, when there was the distinct _crack_ of a gunshot.

"_Get down_!" Another _crack_ before everyone could respond. The officers dropped behind their cars and started shooting back and yelling, Lisbon the loudest.

Jane slid to the ground, back against a tire.

He was okay, he was okay, really. Everything was fine. Everything was fine. He was okay.

He had a hand pressed to his shoulder, breathing evenly and staring straight in front of him. He was okay, everything was fine.

Some time passed. Had the shooting stop? Did the voices die down? Where was everyone?

Jane took his hand away and immediately wished he hadn't. Because fresh blood is so strikingly red directly out of the body. And when there's so much of it, it is really startling.

He felt the earth tilt and was grateful that he was standing up. And then the pain hit him.

A sharp stabbing, right in his shoulder, greater than anything he had felt before. And the _blood_.

"Jane?"

Oh, someone had remembered him.

"Jane, are you alright?" It was Lisbon.

I'm okay.

Her eyes widened at the sight of blood, of _his_ blood. She dropped to him instantly, calling out, "Man down! We need a bus!"

Lisbon looked at him and he stared politely back, having replaced his hand on the wound. "Hello, Lisbon."

"It'll be okay, Jane, you're going to be fine, there's an ambulance coming, it'll be here soon."

"Lisbon, why is it that I am the injured one, yet you sound more distressed?"

She shot him a pointed look. "Maybe next time you'll listen to me."

"Oh, I doubt it."

She sighed exasperatedly. He was so pale. All the color in his face was bleeding out his arm. "Let me see."

"Oh, it's just a scratch."

"_Jane._"

At her tone, he removed his hand, wincing.

She blanched, like she had been the one to be shot. Lisbon had seen all sorts of wounds in her days, but one paired on her consultant, was just so... incorrect.

"That bad, huh-"

"I should be stemming the flow, or something." Where had those emergency first aid lessons gone? "Applying pressure to stop the bleeding or-"

He blinked.

"Jane?"

It was like the whole world just slanted to the side. He half-expected the cars to go rolling away.

"Jane, stay with me."

"It's just my shoulder, Lisbon, their aim wasn't good enough to hit anything vital." But there was just _so much damn blood_. And where was that damn ambulance?

She felt him fading. The pain, mixed with blood loss. How much longer could he sustain?

Sirens.

A half-veiled world. Light growing dim. Come on, Jane, stay with me.

"Look at me, Jane. Please."

But he couldn't.

TBC

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**A/N Cliffhanger, oh snap. I actually thought this was only going to be a oneshot, a twoshot at most. Eh, a threeshot will do, I guess. Next time, we'll figure out what happens to the great Patrick Jane. **

**Feedback is much appreciated :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Mentalist.**

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He comes to slowly, first with the feeling of motion. It's kind of a rocking, a quite peculiar feeling for one who is supposed to be sleeping. Oh, he's so tired, body so heavy. There's pain, but he can't quite pinpoint it. He's jostled abruptly and wakens further. He can feel that he's lying down once he gets the feeling of up. The pain dissipates. And then, he opens his eyes.

People are talking to each other, but they sound so far away. Someone is leaning over him dressed in a dark blue uniform.

"Jane!" There's a voice he knows.

A hazy half smile appears on his face. "Hello, Lisbon." He can't turn his head and she appears in his line of sight. He's trying to get his bearings but everything remains at an arm's reach and sleep is wrapping it's fingers around his consciousness.

"Hi," she breathes. He knows that she's panicking inside, but she's Lisbon, she shows nothing. "You're gonna be fine. How do feel?"

"Like going swimming." It's true. The rocking of the vehicle is rather calming, like waves.

She blinks. "What?"

"Oh, nevermind."

"Hey, Jane?"

"Hmm?"

"Next time, wear a vest."

He wants to laugh. "Lisbon, we can discuss this at a further time. Besides, a vest wouldn't cover my shoulder, so your argument is invalid."

"Next time, it won't be your shoulder."

"That sounds like a threat. You can't threaten an injured man! For goodness sake, Lisbon, I'm shot!"

She sighs. "You are insufferable!"

Black dots appear in front of his eyes, obscuring his view of Lisbon. He feels constricted and so suddenly cold, like someone turned the thermostat down to thirty degrees. But he's still grinning.

"Lisbon?"

"Yes, Jane?"

"While it is most unfortunate, I have to inform you that I will soon lose consciousness."

Humor is gone immediately, although Jane doesn't really grasp why.

"Come on, Jane, stay with me."

"I'm not _going_ anywhere, I'll still be here, it's just––" The ambulance hits some bump in the road. There's swearing all around and a wave of pain hits Jane like a large object colliding with him at high velocity. He chokes on his words because he can no longer focus, the only thing is _pain, _and it's _everywhere_.

"Goodnight, Lisbon." He voice comes out in a whisper.

He closes his eyes and drifts.

**TBC

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**A/N: Shush, I'm writing. **

**Also, thanks for telling me about the abrupt tense-POV-etc changes in the second chapter. I formatted a line break between sections, but I guess FFN screwed it over. Ah, well. It's fixed now (hopefully). **

**Thank you for the feedback, it's much appreciated! **


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Mentalist.**

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There are times where he comes close to breaking the surface that keeps him under. Things like flashes of light, or snippets of sounds. A few words here and there, but none of it makes any sense. There's always a general feeling of discomfort, of something that _should_ be pain, and would be pain at any other time, but not currently because truth be told, everything is foggy. But the sensation closest to pain is the one he feels strongest.

Time had lost meaning, along with everything else. He sometimes how long he'll remain in this limbo. Sometimes he wills himself to wake soon, and sometimes he appreciates the solitude.

When he awakes fully for the first time, it is gradually.

First, a slight falling sensation, but when he lands, it's like he was placed down, gently. He orients himself, eyes closed, to figure out which way is up. Once he gets that figured out, he realizes what is down and that he's very comfortable. He realizes that he's lying in a bed. There's an odd feeling in his shoulder, not pain, but a bit of pressure. He doesn't try to move. Instead, he opens his eyes.

The ceiling is made up of square panels. They're a light gray color, with a rough texture. Not very attractive, and lacking in cracks that form images in the minds' eye. Before his eyes can explore much further, he fears a sharp intake of breath that is not his own.

He turns his head and grins.

Lisbon rises from the plastic chair to get closer to her colleague's bed. A styrofoam cup lays abandoned. "Hey," she says in a relatively level voice. "About time you woke up."

If it had been any other time, he would have shrugged. But his shoulder was bandaged and wrapped in a bright blue sling that was secured so he couldn't go flailing around and reopening the wound. Instead, he answers, "Oh, you caught me."

He's alright. He's fine. He's totally okay. She let's herself a small smile. "How you feeling?"

An interesting question. He feels like he could sleep for a few more days. He's too doped up on pain killers for it to register. He feels heavy. "I'm getting along," he says. "What was the damage?"

"Through and through." She sounds entirely too cheerful. "It didn't hit anything major. You'll be fine."

He frowns. "Well, I could have told you that. I had never doubted I wouldn't be okay. You, Lisbon, overreact entirely too much."

"What, so I'm supposed to let it slide when one of my men gets shot? It's not a big deal?"

"I told you back at the scene that I was going to be fine. _You_ wouldn't stop fretting."

"What!" He is utterly ridiculous. "The bullet might have nicked an artery, or punctured something, or––"

"Ahh, but it didn't."

"But you wouldn't have known that till after the fact!"

"Lisbon, it was _my_ body that was shot. I'm sure I would have known if something was mortally injured."

"No you would _not_ have! You would have no idea!"

"I can't _believe_ you are arguing with an _injured_ man. That is low, even for you, Lisbon."

"Oh my gosh," he mutters under her breath. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. You're wearing a vest for now on when we go to scenes."

"No! You can't make me!"

"Oh, yeah? Watch."

"That is completely unjust, I will be having none of it."

"And I won't be having you getting shot on my watch anymore."

"You treat me like a child."

"You act like one."

There's a standoff and they glare at each other.

It's Lisbon who breaks first. She's just happy to have him back. So, incredibly, happy. She grins and shakes her head. "I'm done."

"Aha! Quitter."

She just smiles and throws out the styrofoam coffee cup. "I'm gonna get out of here."

"Yes, go home. No need to watch over my lifeless body any longer."

She rolls her eyes. "Get some rest, and don't be too difficult."

"I can't make any promises."

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Bullet wounds are not only extremely painful, but very inconvenient.

You're not allowed to move your shoulder very much for the first week, so you can't drive, and even making a simple cup of tea is difficult enough. If you move a certain way, you risk ripping out the stitches and reopening the wound and you'd ruin yet _another_ outfit with all this pesky blood.

And, damn it, they _hurt_. I mean, imagine it, a _hole_ in your body, just held together with some stitching? It's through and through, as well, so you have to be careful about leaning against things, too.

And everyone looks at you with all this _pity_. It's pathetic. It's just your shoulder, after all. No vital organs. I don't understand what the big deal is.

But wait, was it worth it? The pain and pity and inconvenience and blood? Because you didn't wear a Kevlar vest?

Well. It _was_ just your shoulder. The vest couldn't protect that anyway.

Next time, you'll just have to move faster.

**~Fin**

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**A/N: Hurrah, it's done! Thank you to all who reviewed and supplied their feedback, it was great hearing from you! This was mighty fun to write, even being longer than I first thought.**

**Oh, Jane, just wear the vest xD**

**Opinions, good and bad, are greatly appreciated! Thank you for reading!**


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